


Sonder

by bluelionsbish



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Angst and Porn, Eventual Romance, F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Masturbation, Mentioned Black Eagles Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Golden Deer Students (Fire Emblem), Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Slow Burn, Smut, Top Felix, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, but not really, cum, dealing with grief by fucking, felix is a sad boi, idek what i wrote this thing just lives lmao, vocal felix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 12:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21445999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelionsbish/pseuds/bluelionsbish
Summary: "You feel so good," he whispers in reverence, "so good, so wet for me."A drabble in which Felix doesn't know how to cope; not with the death of his brother, not with the death of his father, and not with the thought that he could one day lose you, too.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Glenn Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Original Female Character(s), Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 280





	Sonder

**Author's Note:**

> bonus points for anyone who can pinpoint the stages of grief.  
also no beta we die like glenn. it's unformatted and unedited because i hate doing those two things.  
i don't regularly write smut, so i apologize in advance. it's been interesting getting back into writing it. who wants to count the amount of times i wrote cock lmao
> 
> comments keep author fed!! <3

Sonder

You are familiar enough with grief to notice the tell-tale signs of it in Felix.

In between his usual biting words and near perpetual scowl, you can see the way it creeps up on him, thick and binding.

You don't take offence to the pain he throws your way; the extra bruises he gives you while you're sparring only serve to remind you that he's _fighting _something, an adversary of sorts that even he doesn't know how to quell.

Except, you think, Felix doesn't need to fight his grief. Grief is the natural response to the heart's hurt. It isn't meant to be bottled up or cast aside and forgotten, which is what Felix is currently in the midst of doing.

You wonder how he managed to tuck away the memory of his brother, when the flame of his father burns so bright within his heart. You hope it's time that has healed him. You hope that Felix was able to put his brother to rest, if only to avoid being blindsided by old wounds when his new ones are still so fresh. But he always does succumb to his usual snide, unhealthy ways of coping.

You figure Felix doesn't know much about the five stages of grief. He had skipped right over denial. He had accepted his father was dead the moment the knife touched Rodrigue's flesh. There wasn't much else he _could_ do as he watched his father fall for another man, a man he considered more of a son to him than Felix himself. Felix had always had an unstable relationship with Rodrigue, and when the man had whispered words of goodbye for Dimitri's ears only, Felix hadn't been surprised. He hadn't been surprised, but he had been hurt. And the hurt festered and oozed, until he was snapping at everyone and _everything_, and it was becoming near insufferable.

He's angry.

Rightfully so, you believe, but then you shake your head. Felix may wind up staying angry for the rest of his life if things remain the way they are.

You carry on as usual, doing your best to cater to Felix's needs in ways he can't ask you to stop. You aren't going to let him shoulder the pain alone. You spar more often than not lately, and the aggression in his stance has only increased since Rodrigue died.

“One more time,” he bites out, pulling himself up off the ground. His tunic is a mess of muck and sweat, but he pays it no mind as he fixes his hair-tie and leans into a draw cut. You narrowly dodge as he pushes forward, and you bring your own blade up to parry his. Sparks fly as you nudge him back. Exhaustion clings to his bones; he hasn't slept for three days and with your rested body it's clear this is no longer a fair fight. He's in the dirt and wheezing for breath. The fact you're seeing him like this only serves to paramount his frustration tenfold, but his body is no longer responding and he ends up lying there.

“You're pushing yourself too hard,” you tell him. He whispers a quick _shut up_ before he's out like a light. Watching him collapse because he's worked himself half to death scares you. If Sylvain or Ingrid were to die, would he die alongside them?

You sigh and grab hold of his biceps. He weighs a lot more than you would have guessed. He's lean, but his back, shoulders, and arms are evidently packed with muscle. The bruises and scrapes you have are evidence of this; he basically wallops you every time you train with blades.

You grunt as you jostle Felix into a sitting position. You place your hands under his arms and _heave_. You hope he stays asleep as you tug him along to his room, despite the fact you're positive he's hitting every single stone known to man on the way there. The years of abandonment didn't necessarily do much for the tidiness of the halls in Garreg Mach.

Luckily, it's later in the evening, and no one is around to see you struggle under his dead weight.

You shove open his door. Felix seems to be rising from his short stupor and says nothing as you unlace his boots and help him with his over shirt. He stays silent as you maneuver him to lay back on his bed. His body hits the sheets with a light thump. His eyes, that were only marginally cracked open before, droop shut. You wince at the bags decorating his face. They are brutally dark; dark enough that it looks like he has matching black eyes—except the only one who can get close enough to give him a black eye is you, and you haven't punched him recently. Apart from the one time he decided to fight underhandedly and nearly dislocated your shoulder; your fist rammed itself into his nose before you could stop it. He had actually laughed.

He has no energy to snap at you. His eyes may be closed but his breathing is too strained for him to already be slumbering. He rolls onto his side, facing away from you. You sit on the floor and lean against his bed frame. Silence laps at the both of you, gentle like a tranquil sea.

“Could I have done anything different,” he murmurs, “to have him still be here? Why did I-” he cuts himself off mid sentence, but the _why did I have to be the one to lose someone, again? _is clearly said. There's a rustle of blankets behind you. Felix merely yanks his over his head, not waiting for your response. His breathing evens out shortly after.

You can only bring yourself to blink at his admission. You sit and listen to the quiet noises he makes in his sleep. Little huffs of air fall from his lips. They pepper the space between his groans, and you wonder idly if he's having a nightmare. Or maybe he's simply dreaming; dreaming of the goddess and bowing at her feet, asking her the same _why me_, begging her to bring his father back—if not for him, then for Dimitri, their king; the haggard image of someone who was once a man, like a child who still needs guidance.

Something about the thought makes your chest ache.

There's a sudden strong desire within you to simply hold Felix and tell him everything is going to be okay. But even his vulnerability has boundaries, so you bring your hands back to your lap, unable to touch him. You won't touch him, because he needs to remain far away; he needs those lines drawn firmly in the sand, _you _need those lines drawn. Even if you want nothing more than to be with him.

You chew on your lip. It isn't like you can deliver on those hopeful words, regardless. It is war, after all. There is no guarantee that everything, or everyone, will be alright. You could be dead tomorrow.

You remain in his room for a little while longer before dragging your weary body back to your own. You're positive he's asleep when you leave, but he stirs under the hand that brushes away the hair from his eyes. Your touch is fleeting at best, and Felix will never tell you how it has his already troubled heart stuttering in his chest.

*

He's in the training grounds again in the morning. You sigh in defeat and duly wish that you're not about to repeat the previous night.

The training dummy has been hacked to pieces, but Felix is still swinging his blade as if his life depends on it. He has no control; his jabs are uncoordinated and hurried, and there is an emotion in his eyes that is starkly different from the anger he's been exuding as of late.

You make enough noise to garner his attention, dragging your feet across the dirt almost as if not to spook him away. He sees you and immediately drops his sword. This surprises you until he's in a brawler's stance, with his legs apart and knees slightly bent. If Felix is a master of the blade, then you're the master of your fists. He's asked you many times to help him with this type of training, saying it's only natural to learn how to defend himself should his sword ever be knocked from his hands.

You oblige him.

But he fights dirty, dirtier than normal, and you're on your back gasping in the blink of an eye. He's set the tone, looking for more of a thrilling back-woods bar fight than a proper lesson in brawling. You wobble upright with a dangerous glint in your gaze. You feint a left hook, watch as he reads easily into your move, and then sweep low, kicking his legs out from underneath him. He tumbles to the ground. On his way down, he catches your forearm and pulls you with him.

He huffs out in exertion as he grapples with your arms. He's always mildly surprised at how quickly he's winded when he fights like you do. You had told him once that it's because a good brawler doesn't focus on their own brute strength, and instead hones their whole body to use it to their advantage. A run-of-the-mill swordsman might have had excellent stamina, but when they used muscles they weren't familiar with, their energy would be quickly depleted.

Felix had prickled at the use of _run-of-the-mill_, but after challenging Caspar to a duel, he could see that you had been right. He could whack away on practice dummies day in and day out without breaking a sweat, but as soon as Caspar had made Felix use his legs, the match had been over.

But five years had passed since then, and Felix has already caught his breath like your tussle never even happened. In fact, he seems completely nonplussed as he pins you beneath him, hips dangerously slotted over yours.

“You've been practising,” you grit out, still sucking in greedy breaths while wriggling under him. You don't let yourself wallow in the fact that his proximity has your pulse spiking, and not in the usual _spar-until-we-can-no-longer-move _kind of way.

His lets his gaze roam over your form. Your wrists are held above your head with one of his hands. His grip is tight. He hunches over you, and that's when you notice his eyes are wet and rimmed with red. He remains unmoving; hasn't even gloated in his victory. Something is wrong.

“What's bothering you?” You hear yourself asking. You can guess the obvious and say it's about his father, but there is something else lurking beneath the surface of his skin. Felix, however, is adamant about not talking out his feelings, and you're not surprised as he lets go of your wrists and sits back with a glower.

"Nothing,” he grunts. You yank on his shirt as he goes to get up, bringing him back down to your level. You're pissed. Pissed because Felix actually looks _sad_ and he refuses to acknowledge it.

“Oi,” you hiss, “don't make me out to be a fool. I can tell when you're not yourself.”

He says nothing.

“Is this about your father? Dimitri? The war? Could you please just talk to me, Felix.”

He stares at you, body tense as if he's either going to run from you or lash out at you.

He doesn't know how to tell you that you're the problem. That you _do _things to his emotions, that you make him feel more than anger; that he expected you to mock him that night in his room, when he tried to open up and let you see his _weakness—_and when you didn't, he had turned over and cried. Cried tears for his brother, for his father, and then for you—because he is so difficult to love, and yet here you are, loving him anyways.

There's a hatred that bubbles in your veins for the turmoil Felix is experiencing. You push forward and sit up. He falls into place with you, sitting with his hips firmly planted against yours. It's strange to have a grown man in your lap, but it's stranger still to feel his lips on yours, mouth hot and searching as he leans into you. It sends shivers up your spine.

His hand is cupping the back of your neck, guiding you into his bruising kiss. The other is on your cheek. Your tongue is in his mouth. A tiny groan escapes you as he sucks on your venturing muscle and glides his own tongue along your teeth. He nips at your lips, urgent as spit dribbles down your chin, and he kisses you again and again, until you're deep in his scent and absolutely overwhelmed. He shifts against you and his breath hitches. You use the opportunity to pull away from him, chest heaving. Your hands are on his shoulders, holding him in place.

He looks _delicious_, with swollen lips and mussed hair. He looks fixedly at you; figures that as much as he wants to bathe your skin in kisses, he also wants to pin you down and fuck you when he has you in the dirt like this. His eyes darken, and it makes your blood sing with want, but then he's reeling back, reeling himself _in_.

“What is happening,” it's a stupid question and you know he hates stupid questions, but he's not exactly being rational.

He composes himself first. He's flushed down to his chest and you twitch, because you're suddenly parched for him. Felix is attractive, there's no denying the fact. Your hand had wandered down your slacks in the privacy of your room with his face in mind more than a few times. You aren't exactly proud of it, aren't exactly ready to admit that you've always had stupid feelings for him. And you know they're stupid, because in the end Felix will live by his sword and you'll be left with _nothing._

At least, this is what you're scrambling to tell yourself, because his gaze is lidded and he looks conflicted; as if this was a mistake and you are a mistake—

“I can't do this,” he says bluntly and rocks back to get up. Your hands fall to your lap in a daze and now you're angry _again_, because what the fuck, why did you feel so used?

Felix is probably just confused, you reason, brain muddled up with everything that's been going on. Maybe he was looking to find comfort in someone's embrace. Maybe he was trying to blanket his pain with someone's warmth. You want to be that for him. You do, but—

“Excuse me?” He blinks at the venom in your tone; watches you get up and march over to him.

He's silent even as you bristle. He thinks you kind of look like a kitten, shackles raised and hissing. He's always been fond of cats.

You jab a finger in his chest, “You think you can just do whatever you want?”

He lets you jab him a couple more times before his sternum starts to hurt and he grabs your finger.

“You—_unbelievable_! I know you're hurting, Felix, confused even, but you can't just kiss me and then say _I can't do this_,” you mock his previous tone.

He blinks owlishly. “I didn't want you to think—I didn't know,” his jaw snaps shut and he pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing, “this isn't how I wanted to tell you!” His cheeks are red; whether they have yet to cool from your previous encounter, or if he's irritated, you're not really sure.

He goes quiet, shrinking away as if given the chance, he would literally crawl out of his skin.

You rub the area between your brows. You mirror his sigh, shoulders drooping. You don't really understand what he was trying to say. You don't understand his thought process. So you both stand there, seemingly at a loss.

“Felix,” you decide that you may as well speak up. One of you has to, and it probably isn't going to be Felix, “I-I think I'm in love with you. I want to help you, I really do-” you suddenly appear small to him, insecure, and he hates it because you mean the world to him.

You gaze up at him, “I wish I could be what you need. But I'm not, I can't be because then I'll _hope_ and _goddess help me_,” your face is scarlet, “don't give me hope when there is none.”

He's reaching out to trail his fingers along your arm. He makes his way up and over your shoulder to rest on your cheek. His hand is warm as his thumb brushes over your glistening lips. There's the strange emotion in his eyes again.

Felix thinks he's always seen you as something precious. He just realized how close he holds you to his heart at the worst possible moment; it hadn't been clear until he had lost the last person he could call family. How can he tell you that he's a fool, because that it took his father _dying_ to show him how much he loves you, and that he's petrified of losing you like he has lost everyone else?

And by the goddess, you _love_ him. Though here you are, saying it's fruitless, hopeless, because he couldn't possibly love you in return.

He has himself to blame for that. He has never shown you otherwise.

Now he's pulling you close again, and you're resisting because your heart is closing. And maybe Felix has picked the wrong time and the wrong way to tell you how he feels, so he just shakes his head and says, “don't go. Please.”

You freeze in his arms, cheek brushing against his chest. He's sighing into your hair and brushing your temple with his knuckles. It's nearly peaceful. But then his hand is on your waist, and his breath is hot against your neck.

“I...love you,” he's murmuring into your skin. Felix doesn't lie. He doesn't say things to get his way.

So you know.

You know he means those three words.

Everything falls into place after that; his lips are on your throat and your hands fist his shirt. He hides his face in your neck, licks more than kisses, forms marks where everyone can see. You whine in response. It feels almost as good as the buck of his hips against yours.

Felix's fingers are quick; he's fervent in the way that he's afraid he's going to open his eyes and all of this—_all of you_—will be a dream. He doesn't want to waste time, he wants you close while he has you, wants to feel all of you because if he _does _wake up—well, wouldn't it be the cruellest thing fate's ever done to him.

You gasp out his name, feel him bite at your collarbone as he works his long fingers up and under your coat, under your shirt. They run along the sensitive skin of your ribcage and it _electrifies _you, and you don't know if you should laugh or pull his pants down.

He's insistent and prodding, kneading at your flesh like he can't get enough. You moan shamelessly when he reaches your breasts. There's a vague thought in the back of your mind, one that tells you that you shouldn't be doing this here, out in the open where anyone can see, but somehow you can't bring yourself to care. If anything, it makes you drip.

Felix is whispering something in your ear, but you can't hear him as he sinks his teeth into the juncture of your shoulder and neck; he tastes iron. He laps at the wound he created, soothes it with his tongue and sucks, and the way you wail has him throwing you against the wall. His lips find purchase on yours.

It's not as languid as the previous one, this kiss, it's teeth and lust and absolute want.

You shove your hands underneath his shirt, trying to tear it off. He has a similar idea and is already pulling yours over your head. Your nipples are stiff and peaked and Felix immediately brings his mouth down to play with them. His fingers trail down from the base of your neck to your breasts. He pulls off your bud with a _pop_, and straightens up.

He hoists you up and the stone bites into your back as he leans you against it. You arch into him to avoid the rough contact, making him groan as it causes you to unwittingly grind down against his cock. It strains in his pants and a rumbled moan leaves his chest as he ruts into your clothed core, fingers digging into your waist. You wrap your legs around his hips, finally finagling his shirt off and flinging it somewhere.

He's at your lips again, sharing your breath as he shoves his tongue back into your mouth. He rubs against you, and _oh_, the friction. You sob at a particularly inviting roll of his hips. Your hands are everywhere; his neck, his chest, his _ass_. Your nails create blunt trails in his skin and your name leaves his throat as a rasp.

Felix's hands are working at your pants as he continues to kiss you breathless. His lips only leave your skin as he gets impatient and rips the front and side seams of your pants, tearing them off completely. It was no such loss, they were cheap and poorly made and what he did was _hot_.

Your small clothes come next, then your boots are flung off. You're whimpering in his ear and he's pressing into you, molding himself around you. You mouth at the bottom of his throat, drag your lips up to his pulse point and press kisses to his jaw. He likes the little spot behind his right ear, and you pay extra special attention to it. You blow a puff of air at the area and he lets out a pleased sigh despite twitching away, because _your lips aren't where he wants them. _He gives you access to the base of his throat again before his immediate need to sink himself into you beats out any thought of dragging this on much longer.

Felix braces a knee on the wall between your legs, lets you fall onto him as he uses one hand to support you and the other to run his fingers across your mound and press at your aching clit.

“You're so _wet_,” he chokes out, hissing through his teeth as if in disbelief. He drags his palm across the velvety skin of your inner thigh and back to your entrance. He teases you there, doesn't quite put a finger in before he's pulling away and working at the flesh of your waist again.

Your hands wander down his chest and towards his buckle. He bats away your needy hands and sucks on your neck for good measure. He grins when he hits the right spot and is rewarded with a breathy _yes_.

He slips his ring finger in to the knuckle. You mewl at the intrusion, push down on the digit and he's _laughing _at you. You pout, reach up to lace your fingers in his dark locks and yank. The cry he lets out has you leaking all over his hand and he adds another finger, twists them apart and your hips jerk because _by the saints_, this is really happening.

He's slowly stretching you. Felix doesn't stop your greedy hands this time as he rocks into you.

You practically rip off his buckle, tossing it aside with a heavy clunk. It kicks up a bit of dirt but your attention is back on Felix immediately because, oh, there's his happy trail, and you would only need to pull a little harder on his pants for his cock to spring fully free.

“Felix,” you groan, feeling him rub up against you big and _hard_ on your stomach. He still has his fingers buried inside you and it's a battle to keep yourself from clenching around him. You push at the hem of his pants, pull, pull, pull, and look at him in all his glory. He's already leaking; his sex swollen and dark. It's heavy in your palm when you go to grasp it. He throbs under your touch as you stroke him, and suddenly you're _suffocating_ because Felix is curling his fingers inside you in response. His name falls from your lips like a prayer and it spurs him on, fucking you with his hand.

“You feel so good,” he whispers in reverence, “so good, so wet for me.” His chest is flushed bright red and sweat gathers along his collarbones. You draw one hand up towards his chest. You roll one of his nipples between your thumb and forefinger and he shudders. It seems to snap him out of a haze and he pulls his fingers out of you.

He has the audacity to smirk when you whine at the loss. He brings his fingers to your lips, dripping with your own slick, and pushes against your mouth. You part your lips and drag your tongue along the tips before you draw them in completely and _suck_.

Felix watches you choking on him, completely enamoured. He wonders what you'd look like choking on his cock instead—just not today, not now when he has you squirming on his knee ready to take him in. You positively keen when he leans in to plant another kiss on you.

“Hold on to my shoulders,” he says in your ear. His breath smooths across your neck and down your back and you're hurrying to do as he says. Your grip on his shoulders stabilize you as he lets go of your hip, taking his member in hand and lining it up with your drooling cunt.

Felix pushes in ever so slowly, relishing in every gasp and every moan he draws from your trembling lips. You're yanking on his hair again, blunt nails dragging across his scalp, and his mouth falls open with a harsh murmur of your name.

He thrusts inside to the hilt, bottoms out and shifts in a way that he hits _that_ part of you. Shivers wrack your spine, spreading down your back and through your legs.

“_Fuck_,” he pants, and you mumble something incoherent in his ear because he's thick and throbbing inside of you. He gives another experimental thrust and heat pools in your belly. He starts off shallow and his head lolls on your shoulder. Your hand trails down his back, grasping at him, encouraging him to go faster. So he does.

Felix grinds into you with enough force to drive you back into the wall. You don't care that the stone cuts into your flesh every time he moves. He feels good, so breathtakingly good.

Your nails rake down the expanse of his back as he pulls out and slams back into you. Your toes curl at the raw sensation. He sinks even deeper still and your body rocks back and forth with his thrusts. His hands are all around you, keeping you safe and secure even as he pounds into you. You hear him groan and it makes you pulsate, jaw dropping open as he grips your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

“More,” you're gasping out, and by the goddess you don't think you physically _can_ take any more, but to have him in your arms and between your legs is_ heaven_. And you'd be damned if you aren't going to drink in every bit he has to offer while the two of you have the chance.

He kisses every part of you he can reach, bites the contours of your neck and drags his tongue across your throat. Felix reaches around you, places his hand on the small of your back to bring you close to him, and just like that the angle _changes_.

He snaps forward and your voice is reduced to a rambling mess, all half-formed words and meaningless pleas. You see stars; his touch is relentless, his hips are relentless and eliminate all thought from your mind except that you're close. _You're so close_, and saints help you he actually speeds up.

Felix's hands are everywhere; your face, your lips, your breasts. His fingers dance along your thighs as he leans into you and _thrusts_. You're full and on fire. You can't get enough of him. You stare up at him, watch the sweat glide off his nose and feel the damp of his hair. His eyes are closed as he chases his release, feeling you're on the precipice, and swoops down to capture your lips.

You feel pleasure coiling inside you. You lift your hips, meet him half way in his frantic pacing, and you cum almost violently. You're sure everyone can hear you as you clench around him and cry. You're saying his name like a mantra. He's more vocal now, unhinged as he fucks up into you through your orgasm. His pants turn to moans and your mouth is back on that little spot on his neck and you're _still _riding out the waves of pleasure when his muscles bunch. He's tense and his hips stutter as he rocks into you once, twice, three more times before he pulls out and shoots his spend all over your breasts.

He leans into you and sighs. He sounds content, and you wrap yourself around him as you both bask in the afterglow.

You're pleasantly sore—body tired and heart full. Felix gingerly peels himself away from you, wincing at the stickiness of his cum on his chest from when he held you. Your legs buckle and he's catching you, helping you sit against the wall.

You close your eyes as you catch your breath. You feel Felix's presence and are vaguely surprised when he's wiping you down with a clean towel. He's also retrieved his shirt. You glance at him with heavy lids. He's fully dressed and you lay naked as the day you were born, but it's worth it when he looks at you and gives you a small, genuine smile. It's gone just as quickly as it had come, and your shirt is being pushed back over your head.

He moves away and peers down at your pants, freezes, looks back at you. You laugh and gesture for him to come closer. You stretch up and give his cheek a gentle peck.

“Don't worry about it,” you say and he's sighing a normal, inconvenienced, Felix kind of sigh. You feel his arms encircle your legs and waist. He picks you up with ease despite your previous rigorous activity.

“You're not seriously going to walk out there with my full ass on display, are you?” You hum. He merely grumbles something in response and settles for shifting you in his arms.

“_Felix.”_

“What other choice do you have?” He snarks back, but there's no real venom in his voice. You roll your eyes.

“What if someone sees, though?” Your face heats up and you smoosh it into his shoulder.

“I'd cut them down before they said anything.”

You sigh, already missing passionate Felix, “How very romantic of you.”

Despite his harsh words, he takes care to stay in the shadows of the buildings. No one sees the two of you as he carries you to his room. He sets you down on the bed and is quiet even as he's rummaging through his drawers. He eventually finds what he's looking for and hands you a fresh nightgown. You set to work changing, all the while feeling his gaze on you.

He joins you on his bed, makes room for you to lay down beside him. You scoot over and tuck yourself into him. He doesn't object to it and instead uses his arm as a pillow, giving him a decent vantage point to memorize the plains of your face and the hickeys on your neck.

Felix lets you get comfortable. The silence is peaceful; it always is with him. He fiddles with a strand of your hair, curls it around his finger and lets it bounce free. He feels stiff and grimy and gross; he knows he should have tossed you into a bath with him, but he's too tired and too satiated to really care or do anything about it.

Instead, he drapes himself over you, finds a sweet sanctuary in your embrace.

“Thanks,” it sounds like it's hard for him to grit out, but you know he means it, “for staying with me.”

Your eyes are drooping, wrapped up in his warmth, “I always will.”

Then they fly open, and all your embarrassment crashes into you, “But next time we're doing it in a room with a door!”


End file.
